Mending Fences
by Susan Hillwig
Summary: From DC2!  Max Mercury has gotten used to leaving old lives behind, along with the painful memories that go with them.  So when Greg Saunders - who he originally met in the Old West - comes back into his life, does he face the past or run away from it?


_This story was fun to write, despite the bittersweet tone. With most of my DC2 work, it's pretty disconnected from the modern stuff, what with it being set in the 1800s and all. So when I get a chance to bring the two together, it's a real treat._

_When I did my first Windrunner story, no one on DC2 had any interest in doing Max Mercury, his modern alter ego, so that pretty much gave me free reign to set up whatever I wanted (as I said in the "Inherit the Wind" intro, there's a larger story going on here). A year or so afterward, though, Kevin Feeney got a hold of the Flash title, and he wanted to do ALL the speedsters. After being informed of the Chris Maxwell/Max Mercury connection, he contacted me and said he wanted to incorporate some of my ideas into his arc, which was a delight for me. He agreed to my crazy demands regarding Max's past, then went on to write Flash #27, where Kevin paid great tribute to what I'd already laid down without giving too much away. In fact, if you've already read "Inherit the Wind" and enjoyed it, you might want to go over to DC2 and check out Kevin's story (along with all his other Flash stuff because it rules!)._

_Around the same time that particular story hit, I posted the last part of my Seven Soldiers mini (also found here, under the title "Gone But Not Forgotten") and it occurred to me that I now had two WWQ characters living in the present. It would be damn shame if I didn't bring Max and Greg together for a little reminisce. At the very least, I could reveal to the readers just a little more of what happened way back when...just a little, mind you._

_**Disclaimer:**__ All characters in this story are owned by DC Comics._

_**Continuity:**__ This story originally appeared on the DC2 fanficiton site as part of Showcase #5. For a link, please click on my homepage under my profile._

**MENDING FENCES**

"The Seven Soldiers of Victory are back."

This wasn't something I was expecting to hear. I'd become pretty adept at dealing with surprises over the years, but this...this was a decent curveball Jay threw at me. He'd been catching me up on who was still around from the old days, even though he knew I hadn't exactly been a social butterfly back then: I wasn't a member of the Justice Society, nor had I actively participated in the All-Star Squadron. Sure, I had some run-ins (pardon the pun) here and there with other heroes, but becoming part of a team? Not in that lifetime.

When he mentioned the Soldiers, however, he got my attention. Trying to sound nonchalant, I asked, "Do you mean all seven of them, or just a few?"

"All of them," Jay replied. "Unfortunately, Crimson Avenger died not long after they returned. The rest of them are okay, though." He paused, then said, "Did you know any of them back in the day?"

"Nodding acquaintance," I lied. "Why?"

"Just thought it might be good for you to get together with them, considering you both lost the same amount of time - they've been gone since '48, if you recall. Unlike you, though, they got tossed backwards instead of forwards, and we had to go rescue them." He shrugged. "Anyways, I figured that, under the circumstances, you'd want to talk with them. You know, share some common ground."

"I'll think about it." At the time I said it, that was a lie as well...but then I _did_ start to think about it, and an old feeling began to stir in my chest, one that I thought for sure I'd smothered decades ago:

Loneliness.

I did some checking around - casually, quietly - before finally working up the courage to go out and see him. It was hard for me to get past the knee-jerk mentality I'd developed about the old days, though after that incident with Jay and Barry and the others out in Echo Valley, I was becoming comfortable with at least _thinking_ about those times again. But that was all personal struggle, internal, not out in plain sight where I could be picked apart and judged for the mistakes I'd made - by going out to see him, I'd be exposing myself. But despite the fear, I took the timing of all this to be a good sign: him and I, arriving here from the past within weeks of each other...plus the fact that it was _him_, not one of the others. He knew what it was like to be lost, we'd had some good long talks on it before. I just hoped that, after everything that had happened, we could talk that easily with one another again.

I didn't bother with my costume when I ran out there - I wanted this visit to be as casual as possible - he very likely wouldn't have recognized it anyways, as I'd made a point of staying away from him during the '40s (the last thing I needed to do back then was create a paradox). So, dressed in jeans and a plain white shirt, I bolted out of Keystone and headed southwest. Three seconds later, I passed the Texas border and slowed down a little bit until I got my bearings, then ramped it back up as I made my way across the state, finally coming to a full stop beside the old-fashioned split-rail fence that marked the edge of his property. He'd picked out a nice spread, and I took a moment to admire the view before hopping the main gate - a new sign hung from it, declaring the place to be "The Lazy S Ranch", and I chuckled when I read it, thinking, _The man hasn't lost his sense of humor_. I walked up the dirt road leading to the house, figuring that a leisurely pace was better than running up to his front door, plus it gave me a little more time to think about what the heck I was going to say when I saw him.

The main house was a simple one-story ranch style, with a long porch running the length of it. A pole barn and a small stable with a corral in between the two lay just beyond it. The whole setup had a timeless air to it, the only thing betraying that this was still the 21st Century being the very modern pickup truck parked just outside the barn. Then I spotted him at the far end of the corral, replacing part of the fence that made up the perimeter. A decent amount of gray hair was poking out just beneath the brim of his cowboy hat, and he'd gotten a bit thicker around the middle, but his face had barely changed over the years. He got up as I approached, flashing the same friendly smile that he always gave folks. "How-do, mister," he said. "Sorry for my appearance, I wasn't expectin' any visitors." He gestured to the mud-spattered clothes he was wearing, then peeled off his leather work gloves and offered his hand. "Maybe my mind's goin' in my old age, but y'all look familiar. Did we meet in town yesterday?"

I didn't take his hand. "No, Greg, it's...it's been a lot longer than that." I took a deep breath, then said, "The last time I saw you, it was 1885."

He tilted his head and stared at me, then the light of recognition came into his eyes. "You sonovabitch," he breathed. Needless to say, his response made me even tenser than I already was, and I took a step backward, ready to run. Then he said with a laugh, "They told me you was dead!" He came up and threw his arms around me, still laughing, and I returned the gesture, some of my nervousness evaporating as I did so. "Where the Hell have you been, Chris?" he asked me once he'd let go. "Did you get lost again like before? Is that what happened?"

"That's part of it...and I'm going by Max now, if you don't mind. Max Crandall. I'd rather you not call me...by my old name."

He gave me a puzzled look, then said, "Whatever you want, friend. I'm just glad to see you're still alive." He shook his head, saying, "This is really something. Here I thought that I'd left that whole world behind, and then you show up on my doorstep like a day hasn't gone by. You look almost the same as I remember...except for this." He tousled my white hair, saying, "Finally startin' to show your age."

"Yeah, well..." I smoothed my hair back into place - the color had nothing to do with age, but I decided not to tell Greg that - then poked a finger at his gut. "You don't have much room to talk."

"So long as I can still buckle on my gunbelts, I'll manage." He hitched a thumb towards the house. "C'mon, let's go inside. I think a special occasion like this calls for a drink."

"Now, Greg, you know I don't really drink."

"I know...and the fact that you're gonna have a drink with me right now makes it all the more special." I followed him into the house, which appeared to furnished mainly with cardboard boxes. "Told you I wasn't expectin' visitors," he muttered as he pushed a few aside. "I'm still sortin' through all the things Stuff kept in storage. All these years I've been gone, and that boy didn't chuck out a damn thing...like this." He picked up a framed poster featuring a much younger Greg Saunders, a revolver in one hand and a buckskin-clad beauty in the other, the title "Sagebrush Serenade" arcing above their heads. "If I recall correctly, that gal couldn't ride a horse to save her soul. We had to damn-near tie her to the saddle."

"It must've been nice to have all this waiting for you when you got home," I said, trying not to sound as jealous about it as I felt - every time I jumped forward, I'd been lucky to keep the clothes on my back. "You can sort of pick up where you left off."

"I suppose. But to be honest, I look at a lot of these things, and it's like they belong to somebody else." He propped the poster back up against the wall. "Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to be back home, but it doesn't always _feel_ like home, you know? For the last twenty years, I've been livin' and breathin' and eatin' and sleepin' in the 19th Century, and I can't up and switch that part of my brain off just 'cause I ain't there no more. Reckon that's why I snatched this place up: it's just far enough removed from all that modern hustle and bustle that I can pretend it don't exist if need be."

"It's a bad idea. Hiding, I mean. Trust me, it wears on you."

"I ain't hidin', I just need to ease myself into this century." Then he thought a little deeper about what I'd said, and asked, "Is that what you've been doin' all these years? Hidin' from the world?"

"No, not the world, just..." _Just my friends_, I thought. _Just from everyone I cared about_. I sat down on one of the boxes and hung my head, saying nothing for a good minute. Then I managed to get out, "I couldn't face you guys anymore, not after what I did. So I ran as far and as fast as I could, and I never stopped...not until a few weeks ago."

"You didn't have to run," Greg said quietly. "It wasn't your fault."

"It _was_," I answered. "You were out cold, you didn't see me...you didn't see what _he_ made me _do_." I looked at my hands, trembling before me, and said, "I wanted to stop, but I couldn't..."

"Chris...Max...whatever the Hell your name is now...will you _look_ at me?" He took hold of my shoulders and gave me a good shake. "Reckon this is hard to accept after beatin' yourself up for God knows how long, but _no one_ blamed you for what happened that day. Not Savage, not Johnny...Hell, even Hex never said anything bad about you, and he hated everybody. Point is, we all knew who was responsible for what happened...and accordin' to the other fellas, _you're _the one that stopped him. Don't rightly know how, but that's what they told me when I woke up."

I wanted so much to believe what Greg was saying, but the truth was I couldn't remember doing anything of the sort. Admittedly, my memories of the incident were foggy in parts, but I certainly couldn't recall any moment where I had control over my actions. "Maybe I did stop him," I said after a while, "but that still doesn't excuse what I did beforehand. People _died _because of me."

"Well, if one of those people forgave you outright, would that make you feel better?" I gave Greg a sour look, and he said, "I'm serious. You ain't gonna believe this, but...Hannibal's alive. Sort of. Turns out him and Kate got reincarnated back in the 1940s. And you want to know the real kick in the pants? They came back as my cousin Sheira and her husband Carter! 'Course, it's just my luck that Carter's memories of bein' Nighthawk weren't too sharp until recently, or else he could've saved me a whole mess of trouble." He gave me a lopsided grin. "So, you want me to call him up so's you can apologize to him on the phone, or should we arrange a face-to-face meetin'?"

I gaped at him. How in blazes do you respond to news like _that_? "Don't...don't tell him," I said. "I can't face...I c-can't..." My voice failed me, and I sat there in silence, fighting the urge to fling myself into the Speed Force and pray that I never came out again.

Greg stood next to me quietly for a moment, then gently patted my shoulder. "I think it's time for them drinks," he said, then went off to the kitchen while I stayed put, feeling sick. I knew this was going to be hard, but I never could have imagined this sort of situation springing up - if I had, I certainly wouldn't have come out here. I was tempted to get up and leave right then and there, just to avoid having to deal with this anymore, but I considered Greg too good a friend to do something like that to him. So instead of running, I merely began to pace around the room (at normal speed, not Mach 3 like my heart was beating). As I went around, I spied a picture frame sitting on the fireplace mantel, and when I got closer, I stopped dead and picked it up, surprised at what I saw.

It was a picture of us - all of us - standing in front of Hawk's cabin in Echo Valley. I traced my finger over the glass as I gazed at people I hadn't seen for over a century. Then I spotted myself, the image slightly blurred, standing between Johnny Thunder and Firehair. It was hard to think of that person as _me_ anymore, but there he was, smiling and surrounded by friends. I envied him so much.

"Jeanne gave that to me years ago," I heard Greg say. He was stepping out of the kitchen, a tumbler of whiskey in either hand. "When Speed came to get me, I didn't have a lot of time to pack up, but I made damn sure to grab that."

"I'd forgotten all about this," I said, still looking at the picture.

"That's understandable. If I recall correctly, you were still a bit out-of-sorts from your little trip." He set the drinks on the mantle and took the picture from me, looking at it himself. "First time we met."

"First time I met most of you guys." I ran a hand over my eyes, saying, "God, that was so long ago...another life..." A shuddering sigh escaped me. "I miss it. I miss _all_ of them."

"I know you do, friend. I've only been back for a little while, and I find myself missin' 'em already." He set the picture back in place, then said, "You sure you don't want me to call Carter?"

I shook my head. "Can't bear it yet. The man will probably want to kill me to get even."

"Trust me, he won't hold a grudge against you any more than I hold a grudge against Lazarus for this." Greg pulled his shirt collar open, revealing a deep red scar encircling his neck, just below his Adam's apple. "He would've choked me to death if you hadn't stopped him...which reminds me, I never got a chance to thank you for savin' my life." I turned away from him, embarrassed, but that didn't discourage him. "I mean it. You keep focusin' on what you did wrong that day, and I'm here to tell you that you did at least one damn thing _right_, 'cause I'm still alive and kickin'. Now maybe that ain't such a big deal to you, but it is to me...so thank you, Chris."

I opened my mouth to correct him, to tell him my name was Max now, but instead I heard myself say, "You're welcome." I could even feel a slight smile coming to my lips as I turned back towards him. He responded by picking up the drinks and handing me one. For a change, I actually _wanted_ a drink, and I was about to take a sip when Greg stopped me.

"A toast," he said, tipping his drink towards the picture. "To those we left behind."

I echoed his gesture, adding, "And to those who went on ahead of us." We clinked glasses, then we both knocked back a mouthful of smooth Tennessee whiskey as sepia-toned ghosts watched us from the mantel.

**THE END**


End file.
